


In His Sights

by Ataraxia (colourorcolor1)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Smut, Snarry-A-Thon20, So much smut, fluff at the end, supportive golden trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23881063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourorcolor1/pseuds/Ataraxia
Summary: Hermione alerts Harry to the fact that a pseudonymous author in the Muggle world has published a crime novel clearly based upon one of Harry's DMLE cases. On top of that, the novel features an explicit scene between the main character — who has suspiciously green eyes and Gryffindorish attributes — and another man! Naturally, Harry makes it his mission to track down the author.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 26
Kudos: 381
Collections: Snarry_a_Thon20





	In His Sights

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt** 096: Hermione alerts Harry to the fact that a pseudonymous author in the Muggle world has been publishing a series of dark, gritty crime novels featuring a detective clearly based upon Harry; details of cases gleaned from his career keep turning up as plot points. The third book includes an explicit sex scene that reveals the detective is gay. Harry hasn't come out to the wizarding world yet, and he makes it his business to track the author down.
> 
> Thank you so much to [bleedcolor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedcolor/pseuds/bleedcolor) for beta-ing this fic, and to [likelightinglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likelightinglass/pseuds/Likelightinglass) for helping me work through and plan it! You guys are the best <3

Pots clanged merrily in the sink of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, set to washing by a flick of Hermione's wand as she, Harry, and Ron retired to the sitting room. As Harry ambled over to the liquor cabinet to break out the Ogden's Old, Ron flopped into an old armchair by the fire, resting his feet up on the hideous brown ottoman at the foot of it. Hermione breezed in after them, gracefully swatting Ron's feet off the footrest with an admonishment to take his shoes off before getting the furniture dirty.

"Harry doesn't care, 'Mione – this thing is so old it'd probably be happy to go get some rest in a dustbin somewhere," he protested. "You don't mind, right, mate?"

Harry schooled his features into a woebegone look, turning around to say, "No, it's fine. I mean, it was Sirius's favorite ottoman. He'd probably be pretty upset, but…it's fine…" he trailed off pathetically.

Ron's freckled features twisted in contrition as he instantly removed his feet from the ottoman and started spewing apologies. Harry let him get as far as promising to send it to an upholstery store to fix any damage before he cracked and began laughing.

"Totally got you!" he crowed, bending over to slap a thigh. "You should have seen your face! Sirius's favorite ottoman? I'm putting that one in the Pensieve."

"Oh, you tosser." Ron's expression was an interesting mix of annoyance and amusement, but he grudgingly joined in with the laughter. Hermione simply rolled her eyes good-naturedly, perched herself on the arm of Ron's chair, and muttered something about 'boys' and 'immaturity'.

Ron looked up at her adoringly. "You know you love us," he teased.

"Merlin knows why," she responded, then bent down to give him a kiss. Ron's hand snaked its way through her frizzy tresses, but when they failed to part and Harry caught a glimpse of tongue, he cleared his throat and loudly announced, "Gross, guys."

Ron didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed as he pulled Hermione into his lap. "No need to rain on our parade just 'cause you're not getting any," he declared, quite ungraciously in Harry's opinion. Unfortunately, Harry _was_ going through a dry spell.

Hermione leapt at the subject change. "How are you doing with all that, Harry? Have you thought any more about coming out – just to friends and family at first, of course. Oh, and how are you feeling about Zacharias? I know it was a bit messy at first, but surely you're feeling better by now, right? Would you like us to set you up with someone new? There's a really sweet boy who works with me in Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures; he'd be good for you, don't you think? Or would you like to wait a little while?"

Cringing, Harry did his best to answer her barrage of questions. He had broken up with Zacharias Smith a month ago, and was well and truly over it, but his friends refused to believe him on this topic. Probably because he was still in the closet to everyone but Ron and Hermione.

"Everything's fine, Hermione. I'm still not ready to come out, though. Even if I only tell family and friends, you know it's going to end up in the _Prophet_ as soon as possible. And honestly, I'm over Zacharias. He was a bit of a prick, anyway," he said calmly, then immediately took a large un-calm gulp of firewhiskey.

"He _was_ a prick. You deserve better," Ron proclaimed loyally. "What did you ever see in him, anyway?"

Harry paused. There wasn't an answer to this question that let him come off as particularly sane.

"Well… he was kind of…he liked to boss me around," he started, braving through Hermione's worry and Ron's confusion. "Like, everyone treats me as some perfect, larger-than-life hero who they have to take care of, and they walk around on eggshells trying to please me and give me what I want. But Zacharias wasn't like that, he was never afraid to call me out if I did something he didn't like, or have me go run errands for him, or do him favours. Zacharias has always been… a bit of a bitch to me, even since school. He didn't care that I'm Harry Potter. I was just me," Harry said, blushing slightly. His lips pulled down in a slight frown, as he mumbled, "Of course, he didn't really like "just me" very much."

Ron regarded him sympathetically. "Harry, mate, it's not an either-or scenario. The world isn't divided into people who worship you and people who dislike you," he said earnestly.

"I know, I know. Can we please stop talking about this? I'll come out when I'm ready, I just have too much to worry about right now," he said, cradling his firewhiskey. And it was true, he did have a lot to worry about. The DMLE had just caught a new case and he had been assigned to it.

"You really shouldn't put it off forever, Harry. It'll feel good to get that weight off your chest," Hermione started, but took pity on him when she saw him gulp down another swig of Odgen's. "Oh, fine. We'll stop talking about it." Harry relaxed back into his couch. "For now!" she added, holding her finger up ominously.

"Did you read that paper I sent you?" she asked, turning the conversation to a topic that was only marginally better than the previous. "The one Penelope Clearwater wrote about grain patterns in transfigured wood? I thought it was fascinating."

"..Err.."

Hermione shot him her patented disapproving look. Harry wondered if she had gotten tips from McGonagall. "Honestly, I swear you've both forgotten how to read at this point. You should try reading for pleasure sometime," she sniffed.

"Oi!" Ron looked affronted. "We read for pleasure. Just not the same stuff you do."

Hermione turned her withering look on Ron. "Quidditch scores don't count."

"We read other stuff," Harry defended quickly. "I like those Auror novels. Those are fun. Bit unrealistic, though," he added reluctantly.

Hermione heaved a sigh and, with what looked like great difficulty, said, "Well, that's very good, Harry." Then she brightened up. "Actually, there's a new Muggle detective novel on the bestsellers list, it has rave reviews. And get this: the main character's name is Harry Porter! Isn't that funny? I'll lend it to you when I'm done, if you'd like, but you have to give it back." she offered.

Harry graciously accepted her offer, even knowing that she'd slip several more unconscionably boring articles between the pages to quiz him about later.

\---

On Saturday morning Harry awoke to birdsong, soft morning light filtering through his linen shades, and the loud, grating noise of the floo network clanging. Jamming his glasses onto his face, he stumbled out of bed and down the stairs. "Hermione? What time is it?" he asked when he crouched down over the fire, still in a bit of a post-sleep fugue.

"Can I come through, Harry?" She asked, ignoring his question and sounding anxious. As she stepped out of the fireplace moments later, he couldn't help but notice that she looked anxious, too.

"What's wrong?" he asked worriedly. "Is Ron okay? Has something happened?"

She sat down in Ron's favorite armchair, shaking her head.

"No, no. Everything is fine. Actually, I guess you'll be the judge of that." She took a calming breath before she began to speak.

"You know that book I was talking about the other night? The Muggle detective one? Well, I read it, and I really think you should read it too. You'll understand what I mean."

"What will I understand, Hermione?" Harry pressed.

Hermione paused a moment and seemed to steel herself. "Remember how I joked about how the main character's name – Harry Porter – is similar to yours? That isn't the only thing similar about the two of you. Harry Porter's based on you, Harry. From the way he looks to the cases that he works on. It's unmistakable."

Hermione still seemed a bit shifty.

"That's not too odd," Harry said cautiously. "People write books based off of me all the time. Ginny grew up reading those stupid adventure books about me. What's making you so anxious?" he asked.

Hermione struggled with her words again. "Harry, the author knew… intimate details about some stuff. They published some detailed, _privileged_ information."

Harry swore. "Details about cases? Do you think the ministry has a leak? Robards will go spare if there is."

She just pursed her lips. "No, it's not about cases. All that information was published in the _Daily Prophet_."

"Is it a Statute of Secrecy thing? Telling Muggles about the wizarding world?" he pried further.

She wavered for a moment before apparently reaching a judgment. She shook her head and stood up, thrusting the book at him. "I think it's better if you just read it and find out yourself."

\---

Curled up on the couch under a knit blanket, Harry inspected the cover with a sense of unneasy dread. The title, _In the Sights_ , was written in black block print, and underneath was the author's name: Matthew Birnbaum. From the cover art a raven-haired man looked up at him, shooting daggers with his green eyes and looking all-around intimidating. The model's bone structure was far more sculpted than Harry's. He was cute, Harry thought for a moment, before realizing that was probably highly egotistical, given that the character was supposedly based on himself. Shaking his head, he began to read the description printed on the inner flap.

_When Detective Harry Porter is assigned to a case that revolves around the disappearance of a seven-year-old girl, Mary Johannsson, he must sort through a dizzying web of misinformation and contradicting sources. Suspects keep cropping up, theories abound, and it seems that Mary's disappearance is only the surface of a far deeper mystery. By the time that Mary's body is found, Porter will stop at nothing to get justice for Mary._

Harry could see what Hermione meant. The case described in the blurb obviously mirrored a case he had worked about a year ago. A six-year-old girl, Julie Matheson, had been abducted from her parents' yard in a mixed Muggle-magical area of Wimbledon. What made the case particularly difficult was that her parents, both Muggleborns, kept close ties to their families and to other Muggles in the neighborhood. Thus, his suspect list was expanded to not only include the magical folks in the area, but also the Muggles with whom she and her family regularly interacted. And the more Harry investigated, the more inconsistencies surfaced. Harry was surprised that the author had chosen this particular case – it didn't have a happy ending. 

It had turned out that Julie's uncle had picked her up from the front lawn and she had been killed by her own accidental magic when he attempted to force himself on her. They found evidence that Julie's uncle had been physically and sexually abusing her for years prior. Julie's mother refused to believe that her own brother was responsible for the crime right up until the day of the trial, when she was forced to listen to the hard evidence. The Mathesons divorced a short while later, and the family fell apart. Harry was glad that he had been able to put away the man responsible for Julie's death, but he didn't particularly want to re-read the details of a case that had haunted him for a month straight. He wondered what had possessed the author to pick such a sad story.

Despite his misgivings, he dove in, determined to find what Hermione had been so anxious about. He scanned the pages and was pleased to note that, unlike most fiction based on him, his literary counterpart was far from a perfect character. The author mentioned Harry Porter's recklessness several times, but usually followed such statements with a nod to his "bravery." Harry's amusement morphed into annoyance briefly as the author recounted a public altercation he had gotten into with Robards – Chief of Police Howards, in Porter's case – which had resulted in some tense departmental dynamics for a week or two.

He had to admit, though, the author had a talent. Despite knowing the ending, Harry found himself on the edge of his seat, always excited for what the next page would hold.

Harry was starting to wonder if Hermione had been overreacting until he got about halfway through the book, when Detective Porter made his way into a pub and ordered a double whiskey.

_Sinking into the booth, Porter mentally reviewed his interview with the Johannsson's neighbors. Mrs. McCarthy was a widow, and a huge gossip. It was hard to tell with gossips whether their information was accurate or just a figment of the overactive imaginations of bored and highly creative housewives, but even if it was fiction, it paid to listen to the details. Porter slid his finger around the rim of glass, then brought the amber liquid to his lips._

_As he set the glass down, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face across the pub. It was Mary's second grade teacher, Alex Pace. The grimy lights shone down on him, filtered through the ambient dust and highlighting his cheekbones. Porter allowed his eyes to rake over the other man, taking in the lean muscle that covered his frame and the graceful elegance he exuded leaning on the bar. Alex threw his head back as he laughed at a joke made by the man next to him. He leaned in closer to the man, a wicked look in his sparkling eyes._

_Porter pushed himself up from his booth, swirled the liquid in his glass, and strode purposefully towards Alex. Verdant green eyes darkened as they locked with deep brown. Porter set his glass down between the two, and took the other man's place with one forceful look, ignoring the offended spluttering from behind him._

_"Alex Pace, right? Detective Porter – I interviewed you last week," Porter reintroduced himself._

_"How could I forget?" Alex responded with a coy smirk. "How's the case going?"_

_"I can't really talk about it with you." Porter responded brusquely before running his eyes boldly down Alex's frame, making it clear he wasn't particularly interested in talking. "What are you drinking?"_

_"Rum and coke."_

_"Can I get you another?"_

_"I'd rather have something else." Alex wrapped a hand around the collar of Porter's jacket, pulling him close. "Are you on offer?"_

_With a smirk, Porter slipped his hand around the other man's waist, yanked him forward, and crashed their lips together. Tongues vied for dominance, in conflict and in alliance, an insatiable rhythm, and Porter knotted a hand into Alex's hair and pulled his head back sharply. Throat bared, Alex bent into Porter's larger frame as sturdy arms wrapped around him. Porter mouthed along his jawline, then down his throat where he gave a bite to Alex's collarbone. Alex let out a moan and pulled back, breathing hard, and gave a slow, purposeful roll of his hips. Porter's grip tightened at the feel of the other man's cock against his own, and he plastered their bodies together at the waist as they continued the sensuous roll. He leaned in again, taking Alex's soft bottom lip between his teeth, biting hard enough to deliver a little jolt of pain. As he soothed over the spot with his tongue, pleasure clouded Alex's mind. He pushed Porter off, but before he could misunderstand, Alex grabbed one of the detective's wrists and led him out of the pub, behind it and into a closed-off alleyway._

_A wily grin snaked its way across Porter's face, and he spun Alex around, pinning him between the wall and Porter's hard body. Tracing his fingers down Alex's arms, his grip tightened around his wrists, which he pulled up above the man's head in one fluid motion. Alex thrust his body forward, seeking contact, then let himself go limp, suspended between hardness on both sides, and let himself be ravished. But when Porter let go of his wrists, Alex instantly turned the tables, and he gave Porter a shove into the opposite wall of the alley._

_Looking up through his lashes, Alex stalked towards him and licked his lips wantonly. He ran a feather-light touch down Porter's toned stomach, and as the tip of his index finger reached Porter's waistband, he sank to his knees. Porter cupped the man's face in one calloused hand and rubbed his thumb over the glistening pink lips. Kissing the pad of Porter's thumb, Alex unzipped his trousers and shoved them down without finesse, and Porter's heavy cock sprang from its confinements, bobbing thick and flushed –_

"Holy fuck!" Harry shouted, slamming the book closed. _How did they get this rubbish published?_ he wondered, scandalized. _It's practically porn!_

And then it hit him.

"Fuck!" He felt himself grow pale in horror. _If anyone magical reads this, they're going to know it's me, and they're going to know I'm gay. And they're not just going to know I'm gay, they're going to read an explicit sex scene with me in it. The _Daily Prophet_ will probably quote directly from the novel. Every single person who reads the _Prophet_ – Molly Weasley, McGonagall, Severus-fucking-Snape – are all going to read about me getting a blowie from another bloke._ "Oh god, oh god," he mumbled to himself, breathing harshly and pacing around the parlor. A lightbulb shattered above him, and the windowpanes began to rattle warningly. He sat down heavily, head in his hands, and tried to rein in his magic.

_Okay, everything's fine_ , he tried to reason with himself, _I was going to come out anyway. Sometime. Just not yet, and now I don't have a choice._

Within a split second, Gryffindorish righteous fury reared its head. Who the fuck was this author? Was it someone he knew? He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. Standing abruptly and throwing a handful of floo powder in the fireplace without bothering to check ahead, he called out "Granger-Weasley residence," and hurtled through the floo network. He righted himself, after being spat out at the other end, to face his two best friends. They looked back at him with identical concerned expressions.

He tried to think of something to say, but all that came out was another soft, "fuck." Hermione patted the spot between her and Ron on the sofa tentatively, as if she were beckoning some feral woodland creature. He probably did look a bit rabid. He flopped down, putting his head in her lap. She stroked his hair comfortingly, and Ron gave him a very manly slap on the back. It stung a bit, but the sentiment behind it made him feel better. When he had calmed down, he sat back up and looked at his friends.

"I reckon I should come out to the family, before they find out from a bloody porn novel," he said resignedly. Hermione smiled gently at him.

"We're very proud of you, Harry. Everyone who matters loves you, no matter what," she said. Ron gave a solemn nod.

"I'll do it next weekend, at the Weasley family dinner," he decided. "Now who the fuck is Matthew Birnbaum? And where does he get off outing people? And how the hell did he know that I'm gay?"

"He's not a real person," Hermione answered. "While you were reading, I went into the ministry and checked the records – there's not a single magical or magic-related person by that name. It's an alias."

Harry swore again, then gathered himself. "Well, I want to find out who he is."

Ron's strategic mind was apparently already whirring. "We could make a list of people who might know. That's me and 'Mione, of course, and Zacharias Smith. Do you think Smith started rumors?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Zacharias is a tosser, but I don't think he would out me. At least, not on purpose. He got disowned by his dad when he came out, so he does take that stuff pretty seriously. But I was with him for three months. Maybe he told a close friend or someone that we were together? Maybe whoever he told had less qualms about outing me?"

"First step: ask Zacharias who he told," Ron suggested. "Want to go now? It's a Saturday, so he's probably home."

\---

Harry had never felt so awkward in his entire life, explaining his porn-filled plight to his ex-boyfriend and his ex-boyfriend's new boyfriend. Zacharias seemed neutral enough, but his boyfriend was barely concealing his amusement. 

"…anyway, I was wondering if you told anyone about us, and if maybe they could have told someone. Or if they were the writer," he finished.

Zacharias looked a bit ticked off, now. "I told you before," he said flatly, "that I would keep it a secret, and I did. I didn't even tell Malcolm." The boyfriend – Malcolm – gave a little shrug to back him up.

"Oh." Harry said dumbly. "Are you sure?"

Zacharias's expression grew even colder, if possible. "I'm sure," he replied frostily. "I wouldn't do that to someone."

Harry deflated. "Okay, yeah. Thanks," he sighed dejectedly. "Have a good weekend, guys."

Malcolm sent him a little wave, still looking amused. Zacharias simply lifted an eyebrow haughtily and sneered. What a tit.

\---

"Now what do we do?" he asked Ron and Hermione, once they had returned to the relative safety of their living room.

"You should get a solicitor," suggested Ron. "I don't think they're allowed to print that stuff about you."

Hermione tutted.

"That would never work, Ron. In the Muggle world, Harry is a nobody. They would have no idea it's based off of him. Besides, it's labeled as fiction and Harry's name is changed, so Matthew is technically free to publish what he wants."

Ron's countenance shifted instantaneously as he got an idea. "I know!" he exclaimed. "Matthew is definitely magical, or at least related to someone magical, so you can send him an owl. But if you send it as yourself, he'll never respond. You should pretend to be a fan and ask him what his real name is. Or, no, he probably wouldn't tell you. You should ask him how he knows you — Harry Potter."

Harry thought about it for a moment. "Do owls recognize aliases?" he asked.

"It depends on what kind of alias. If it's unofficial, probably not, unless he's previously contacted you from the alias," Hermione recited. "But Matthew Birnbaum is an official alias – it's probably on his contracts with the Muggle publishers."

Harry felt a spark of hope, and a whole lot of gratitude for Ron and Hermione. He'd probably have blown out all the windows of Grimmauld by now, if not for them.

"All right, I'm gonna write this bloke a letter. Will you help me?"

Thirty minutes later, they had their letter. As much as Harry had wanted to tear the bastard a new one, Hermione had reasoned that you catch more flies with honey, and a hint of truth. "Dear Mr. Birnbaum," it read, "I am a huge fan of _In the Sights_." It continued with flattery until the second paragraph, where they wrote, "I hope that I assumed correctly that you're a wizard, or a relative of someone magical; it might be a bit surprising to receive an owl if not. I kept up with Harry Potter's case in the _Prophet_ , so I knew the ending to the novel, but I was still on the edge of my seat the whole book. I was really surprised when I came to the scene with Alex and Porter. I myself am gay, and I know the wizarding world – and the Muggle world too, for that matter – doesn't have much representation of sexualities in the media, so I really appreciated the representation in your novel. But I had no idea that Harry Potter is gay! How on earth did you find out?" They signed off as Jack H., addressed the letter to Matthew Birnbaum, rented a pay-by-the-letter owl, and sent it off.

\---

Harry grabbed a beer from the fridge and settled into his couch, thumbing the cover of _In the Sights_. He briefly considered burning the bloody book, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Matthew Birnbaum _was_ a good writer; he was witty and sharp-tongued and knew how to weave a narrative – even a narrative that Harry was intimately familiar with. He sighed, and resigned himself to finishing the book, even if it meant he had to read through a sex scene.

_Kissing the pad of Porter's thumb, Alex unzipped his trousers and shoved them down without finesse. His heavy cock sprang from its confinement, bobbing thick and flushed before Alex's greedy mouth. Alex licked up the shaft, then down again to take his heavy sac into his mouth, rolling and sucking with his tongue. He mouthed back up the shaft and finally took Porter's cock in his mouth, head descending farther with each suck. Porter groaned loudly, fisting his hand into the man's hair when Alex relaxed his throat and took Porter all the way into that deep, warm suction. Porter thrust forward once, then stilled his hips so as not to hurt Alex. But Alex simply placed his hands on Porter's toned arse and pulled him forwards, looking up at him with filthy heat in his eyes and encouraging him to thrust. Porter couldn't help but comply, holding Alex's head in place as he fucked into his mouth, watching those swollen lips stretch around his girth. Alex's moans reverberated through his cock, drool spilling from his mouth and dripping from his chin, and when Alex couldn't help but relieve some pressure – god he was so hard – he reached down to unzip his trousers and palm himself through his pants._

_Porter felt his bollocks draw up at the sight of Alex, wanking himself from between Harry's legs, moaning and slurping, eyes nearly rolling back in his head from filthy bliss._

_"Fuck, Alex, you're going to make me come," Porter groaned, and Alex tightened his lips further, giving Porter a tight circle of flesh to fuck into as he found his release. Porter slammed his cock into the back of the other man's throat, shooting his load as Alex's throat convulsed around the head. Sated, he pulled out, ran a hand through Alex's hair. Alex was wanking, body trembling like a string about to snap, and all Porter had to say was, "Come for me," and Alex was coming hard. It exploded out of him, onto his chest, his neck, his chin, and when he was done Porter pulled Alex up to his feet. He bent in, supporting Alex's weight, and licked the come from Alex's jawline._

Harry put the book down, feeling overwhelmed and uncomfortably horny. He hadn't gotten laid in months, and apparently his body hadn't caught on to the fact that Harry was supposed to be angry at this bloke. _Who on earth writes this stuff?_ he wondered. He pictured Matthew – whoever he was – sitting at his desk, writing. Thinking about _Harry_ as he wrote.

He wondered if Matthew thought about Harry when he wanked. Alex Pace might be a made-up character, but Porter was practically real. Maybe Matthew pictured himself in Alex's position, with Harry's cock in his mouth.

He could see it now, Matthew sitting at his desk, ignoring his arousal as he commited his fantasy to paper. Did he use a laptop, or would he write with a pen? Harry hoped it was with a pen. He pictured Matthew's fingers: long, thin, graceful. He bet Matthew had writer's hands, soft and un-calloused and ink stained, but quick and nimble and precise. Harry imagined them dancing across the page, his script simple but beautiful. And perhaps when Matthew finished the scene, he finally reached down and wrapped those long, lean fingers around his cock and pleasured himself, thinking about Harry.

At this point, Harry was so hard he thought a particularly stiff breeze could probably make him jizz his pants. He pulled out his prick and turned the page to read the next scene, where Alex brought Porter back to his house to continue. Harry kept his touch featherlight, wanting to come as the characters did. When Porter threw Alex onto the bed and tore off his clothes, he pictured himself throwing Matthew onto the bed. Matthew was a faceless entity, but Harry could see his hands and his cock in his mind's eye so clearly.

As Alex begged Porter to fuck him into oblivion, Harry pictured Matthew laid out in front of him, arse high in the air and babbling senselessly as he begged Harry. Harry wanted to give Matthew what he wants – to ride him into the mattress over and over if that's what he liked. When Porter filled up Alex's arse, Harry arched, and fell apart, and spattered all over the open pages of _In the Sights_.

Harry caught his breath for a moment, wondering how his mind had run off on that tangent. Of course, he was still mad about the book. Matthew just happened to be a very… descriptive writer. Whoever Matthew was, Harry certainly wasn't going to fuck him.

\---

On Wednesday night, Harry met Ron and Hermione at their place. He hung up his crimson auror robes on the front hall hook and poked his head into the doorway of the dining room, holding the bag of Indian takeaway in front of him like an offering. He gave it a little jiggle, and Ron's face lit up.

"Brilliant, mate, I'll go get the plates. Or maybe we should just eat now, from the cartons?" He glanced hopefully at Hermione, who rolled her eyes but giggled at his antics despite herself.

"Honestly, Ron, I think you can wait thirty extra seconds," she reprimanded him with a faux-stern look.

The three of them spent a good amount of time talking about work – Harry's case had been solved in a matter of days, and Hermione rambled about legislation as Ron watched her lovingly, having given up on trying to understand her long ago.

They let the topic of _In the Sights_ go untouched until dessert, when they were interrupted from their ice cream by a tapping on the window. A little owl was perched on the ledge with a scroll of parchment attached to its foot, rapping impatiently on the glass. Hermione opened the window and took the letter, feeding the bird a treat from the jar they kept on the sill.

"For me or for you?" Ron asked, muffled slightly by a mouthful of pistachio.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Neither. For Harry. From Matthew Birnbaum." Harry snapped upright at that, choking on a berry. As he wheezed, and then winced when Ron began thumping his back with verve, Hermione unrolled the scroll.

"Do you want me to read it aloud?" Hermione asked. Still a bit breathless, Harry nodded.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Dear Mr. Jack H.," she started.

"Who the hell is Jack H.?" Ron interrupted.

"The fake name we gave, Ron," Hermione said impatiently, then started again. "Dear Mr. Jack H., I thank you for your letter. I'm always happy to hear from a fan. While I appreciate that you enjoyed my novel, it is a work of fiction. I'm happy you were able to find some representation in _In the Sights_ , but I regret to inform you that Harry Potter's case was an interesting inspiration and nothing more. I would appreciate it if you would not spread the rumor that Harry Potter is gay, lest we both find ourselves sued for every last knut we own. As I understand it, his Hogwarts sweetheart is very female, and such baseless rumors may prove themselves very frustrating and difficult for him to disprove. In the unsubstantiated and highly unlikely case that he _is_ gay, I'm sure that as a member of the gay community yourself, you understand how jarring and inconsiderate it would be to be forcibly outed. I thank you for your support, but I do hope you won't be an imbecile regarding this matter, for both our sakes. Sincerely, Matthew Birnbaum."

The three of them sat back, Harry releasing a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, Ron taking another large spoonful of ice cream.

"Interesting," Hermione said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "So, he doesn't know that you're gay, he just wanted to write your character as gay for the book. And he didn't want to out you – he seemed pretty adamant that "Jack" not spread any rumors. And it seems like if the _Prophet_ does get a hold of it, Mathew will probably go on record saying that his work is fiction."

Harry nodded.

"You're good, mate," Ron said. "I don't think you have to worry about it. Maybe you could contact him, as yourself, and just ask that if the _Prophet_ does out you, he could go on record saying that part is false?"

Harry shook his head. "If it gets to the _Prophet_ , it's going to be too late. No one will care what Matthew has to say about it. And besides, it _is_ true. Well, not the stuff about me sleeping with a random bloke, but the fact that I'm gay. It's probably going to come out sometime or other, after I've come out to the family and I start dating men publicly." Harry sighed. "I guess I should just forget about Matthew Birnbaum and focus on myself, right?"

"If you can," Hermione said, looking dubious. Ron snorted.

"I'll tell the Weasleys as soon as we have family dinner," Harry said decisively.

\---

On Saturday night, at the monthly Weasley family dinner, Harry gathered himself and looked out across the table at his friends and family. Luna had joined them, as she lived just a hill or two away, and she had brought Neville with her. He was glad not to have to come out twice, but the larger than normal gathering was making him quite nervous. Still, he was committed.

He gathered his courage and cleared his throat, deciding to just get it over with. "I have something to tell you guys," he said. He was met with the full force of nine curious pairs of eyes, and swallowed thickly. _Good start, Harry_ , he thought sarcastically. His throat began to close up. "I'm gay," he croaked, closing his eyes so as not to witness the fallout. Silence reigned for a moment.

"Thank you for sharing that with us, Harry," Molly Weasley said, and Harry opened his eyes to see her regarding him warmly. He smiled back, relieved. Ginny had a look of great comprehension on her face, as though she had just solved a particularly difficult arithmancy problem. Luna looked entirely unsurprised, but it did take a lot to surprise Luna. The rest of the Weasley clan looked quietly accepting; though George did shoot him a cheeky wink. Harry felt a rush of relief and affection for these people who had stood by him throughout everything, and still stood by him today.

Harry nodded a bit awkwardly, and said, "I thought you all should know. You're my family. Um .… so, what was it you were saying, Mr. Weasley? Soap dispensers?"

Harry relaxed, shoveling some peas into his gob as Arthur jumped right back into his enthusiastic oration on Muggle soap dispensers. Everything would be fine.

\---

And everything was fine. He was gay, he was out, and his family loved him. But days later, Harry still couldn't stop thinking about Matthew Birnbaum. Who was he?

Harry thought that he probably knew Matthew personally. Detective Porter's characterization was so spot-on, it had to have come from first-hand knowledge. The papers had printed him as alternately deranged and perfect, depending on the year, but Matthew seemed to _truly_ know him. He knew how Harry would react to the case, knew how reckless he could be, how Harry was driven to be a protector.

But Matthew was not what Harry had expected. Matthew's letter had been blunt, but polite enough, although it was obvious that Matthew was not one to roll over. The corner of Harry's mouth lifted as he recalled how Matthew had warned "Jack" not to be an imbecile – the statement was almost Snape-ish. He had expected that Matthew would be jumping at the chance to hike his book sales up, excited to expand his reader base to the wizarding community. But he hadn't been.

Harry grabbed _In the Sights_ from his bedside table, still a bit crusty, and turned back to the scene where Alex took Porter home. He read it differently, this time. Matthew didn't seem to be the type to like being manhandled. Maybe Matthew wanted to manhandle Harry. Harry shivered a bit, picturing it.

This time, when he read the scene, he pictured himself as Alex and Matthew as Detective Porter. He pictured Matthew gazing down at him where he was sprawled on the bed, eyes dark and hungry and lustful. Retrieving some lube from the bedside table, he flipped the cap open and coated a finger in the silky fluid.

This time, he circled his entrance and slid a finger in to the knuckle, imagining Matthew spreading Harry's legs roughly. Matthew would be all lean muscles and bony hips, and when they fucked it would look like pornography. He imagined Matthew turning him over, pushing him up to all fours and opening him up quickly and crudely. He imagined the look in Matthew's eyes as he begged Matthew to fuck him. Perhaps Matthew liked that, the feeling of someone else entirely under his thrall. So Harry pictured himself begging Matthew, and when Matthew would push into Harry in one sharp thrust, Harry would take it all, grinding back onto it: a slut for Matthew's cock. Matthew would fuck him harshly, his hand on Harry's back, pushing him face-down into the bedsheets. He would scream that he loved Matthew's cock, that it made him feel so good, that he was going to come on it. And when Matthew would reach down and wrap one long-fingered hand around Harry, he would come all over the bedsheets. He convulsed, picturing Matthew slamming him into the headboard with a final thrust, and Harry twisted his fingers inside of himself, coming with a long, low moan.

Harry took back his earlier words about not wanting to fuck Matthew. He might not know who was behind Matthew's persona, but he could bet that it would be the best sex of his life, and that was just what Harry needed. He wanted Matthew; he wanted to fulfill every fantasy that dirty mind came up with. Now he just had to find him.

\---

Every day that week, Harry got home from work and made it his mission to track down the elusive Matthew Birnbaum.

On Monday, Harry went to the publishing company and pretended that he wanted to speak to the author about adaptation rights. The lady at the front desk gave him the runaround, explaining that the author was an incredibly private man and wanted to remain anonymous.

"Would you like me to put you in touch with his agent?" she asked.

"Will I have to deal directly through his agent, or will I ever be able to meet with the author in person?"

"Likely not," she responded.

On Tuesday, Harry had the brilliant idea to try a tracking spell on the letter. It led him directly to a pay-by-the-letter owlery. When Harry asked the owner if he remembered who had come in to send letters last Wednesday, the owner looked at him like he was crazy.

On Wednesday, Harry found an eyelash on the letter. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it earlier. It was long and black, and it was Harry's ticket to finding Matthew Birnbaum. He cast the tracking spell on it, and his wand led him on a wild goose chase around London. It was midnight before he realized that it was his own eyelash, and he had been tracking himself for the past four hours.

On Thursday, Harry decided to adapt his tracking spell. The letter may have led back to the owlery, and that eyelash may have been his, but if he could lift even a couple tiny flakes of Matthew's skin from the parchment, he might be able to find him. He tried a modified _scourgify_ , designed for dusting, and carefully siphoned each little particle off of the parchment. Then he tried to track the dust, but it kept on leading him around Grimmauld Place. 

On Friday, he tried to isolate just the ink from the letter, figuring that he could try tracking it back to the inkwell it came in. He summoned the black pigment, then watched in horror as the letter promptly burst into flames. At that point, he decided to give up on traditional methods. 

He stood outside the publishing company's building, resolved to break the law. Well, not _really_ break it, he reasoned with himself. A little confunding never hurt anyone. He was aware that he was probably being a little creepy, but Matthew's writing in _In the Sights_ made it seem as though Matthew would hardly mind if Harry tracked him down. If anyone had reason to confund an innocent Muggle civilian, it was Harry. And he was an auror – he'd taken ministry courses on how to confund Muggles in training. 

So he walked up to the front desk, cast a _confundus_ on the lady sitting there, gazed deep into her eyes, and asked the question.

"Who is Matthew Birnbaum?" he asked, with great weight.

"I don't know," she replied dreamily. Damn it.

"When is his next meeting?" he inquired.

"I don't know," she said again.

"Well, can you check?" Harry snapped.

Still looking dreamy, the receptionist pulled out a binder and began to leaf through it slowly. Harry shot an impatient look around the hall and urged her politely to please hurry the hell up.

"Ah, here we are. Monday at noon," she smiled vaguely up at him.

\---

On Monday morning, Harry flooed in sick to work.

"I've got a real bad cold," he said, hunched over the fire. He sniffled a bit to prove his point.

"Oh, you poor dear," Robard's assistant crooned. "You look _awful_. Don't worry, I'll figure it all out for you, dear. Just get some rest."

"Thanks, Margaret, you're a real gem," he said weakly, then coughed a bit. He closed the floo connection and stood up, somewhat stung by her remark about looking awful given that this was how he looked every morning.

He decided to take her unknowing insult to heart. He set about giving himself a nice clean shave, used a handful of Sleekeazy's hair potion, and slipped on a green cashmere sweater that Hermione said made him look "dashing." This was going to be his first meeting with Matthew Birnbaum, and he wanted it to be good. He planned to casually stroll down the street right as Matthew approached the building (after slightly creepily waiting around the corner for the thirty minutes beforehand, just so he didn't miss him). Maybe it would be a meet-cute type scenario, where Matthew would be surprised and drop his papers, and Harry would bend down to help him pick them up. They'd touch as Harry handed the papers back, and…. then Matthew would rail him?

Harry shook his head. _Just be normal_ , he told himself. 

By eleven o'clock, he was so antsy that he decided to just apparate to the publishing building and screw the waiting. By 11:45, he was actively regretting that decision, as having stood in the same position for the past 45 minutes had caused his knees to lock. By 11:55, he was worried that he had gotten the date wrong. The receptionist had said Monday, but did she mean _this_ Monday? He hadn't recognized a single person who had entered the building, and he was positive that he knew Matthew personally. He gave up at noon, peeled himself off the wall and tromped towards the publishers, fully intent on confunding the inept receptionist once again. But as he began to traverse the street, he caught sight of a figure. A very familiar figure.

The man stalked down the street, tall and thin, dark hair long and lank. He glanced across the street and locked eyes with Harry, and Harry felt the air whoosh out of his lungs. Severus _fucking_ Snape. 

Snape's eyes widened in shock. Harry was horrified. Snape's features began to rearrange themselves into an ugly sneer, but when Harry glanced at the publishers and then back at him, he seemed to realize that Harry knew. Harry knew that Severus Snape was Matthew Birnbaum. Harry watched Snape's eyes widen again, this time with horror and — was that humiliation? Harry couldn't bear it a moment longer. He did _not_ want to fuck Snape. The universe was cruel and this was an awful, horrid trick on him. He disapparated on the spot.

When he appeared in the parlor of Grimmauld Place, Harry kindly allowed himself to freak the fuck out. Snape? He had been fantasizing about _Severus Snape_ , the greasy old git? The man that had made his life miserable for seven years, the man that belittled him at every chance he got, the man that despised him with every fiber of his being. He felt sick to his stomach, and furious with himself. He should have known that Matthew Birnbaum was just a disguise for a creepy old pervert. He decided with a shudder that he would never think about this again. He would forget about this whole affair, lest he be scarred and impotent for life.

\---

But, of course, he did not forget about the whole affair. In fact, it weighed on him quite heavily. When he went in to work the next day, Margaret remarked that he still looked tired, and asked him if he'd rather wait another day before coming back to work. Harry couldn't think of anything worse than trundling around his house, alone with his thoughts, so he politely declined and thanked Margaret for her concern.

And he kept on seeing the loathsome book around the house. He'd be sitting down in the morning, enjoying a cup of coffee, then he'd look over and _bam!_ he'd see the wretched cover. He hated the model's fake green eyes; he knew they had been digitally enhanced. They were greener even than Harry's. He detested the bloody book; he couldn't comprehend why he hadn't binned it yet.

\---

When some of his earlier revulsion had worn off, he let himself think about it. Why on earth had Snape written such a thing? Snape hated him, hated even just the _look_ of him. How could he even stand to write a sex scene with Harry in it? 

He shuddered at the thought that Snape would write any sex scene at all. He preferred to believe that Snape was entirely devoid of equipment down there, like a Ken doll, if Ken dolls came in ugly. _But you know that's not true_ , a little voice said in the back of his mind. He rolled his eyes. So what? It was probably shriveled from disuse. _The bigger the nose, the bigger the hose_ , the voice niggled. Harry felt sick at that entirely unbidden thought. 

He just couldn't picture Snape having sex. It was far too awkward. He probably looked terrible undressed, too pale and skinny. He bet his legs were thin as a rake. How ridiculous his cock must look between those tiny hips. 

Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste, and finally picked up the book. He carried it to the bin, but before he was able to toss it in, he realized that he had never actually read the ending. He knew the broader scope of what was to come, but he wondered how Snape had translated it to Muggle terms. Surely it wouldn't be too odd if he kept the book — just until he finished it, of course. 

\---

In the shower a few days later, he soaped up his cock and felt it harden under his grip. He let out a sigh, pleased. Apparently knowing that Snape was Matthew Birnbaum hadn't stopped his needy libido. He rubbed himself in slow, steady strokes, reaching down to fondle his bollocks. He looked down at his cock, eager and flushed. _Snape's is probably bigger_ , the annoying little voice said. Dejected, he waited for his prick to wilt. If anything, it did the opposite. _How the fuck am I still hard thinking about Snape's cock?_ he wondered, and then pictured the cock in question. He was appalled when his own gave a little jump of approval. _Ugh, this is too weird_ , he thought. He pictured Snape's fingers on his comically large member and hated himself a bit more when he began to leak a dribble of pre-come. But he was randy as all hell, and if this is what his cock wanted, this was what it was going to get. He resumed his strokes, trying not to find any pleasure in it. But he thought of Snape's thin, bony ankles, and his fingers, and hated himself all the more as his hand began moving faster. By the end, his hand was a blur, and he came harder than he had in a very long time. As he came back down to earth, he felt a rush of shame come over him, and he quickly rinsed the come off of his hands. What was wrong with him?

\---

He did not think about Snape again for several days. Well, he did, but he tried his best not to. He lied unconvincingly to Ron and Hermione when they asked if he had truly given up his hunt for Matthew Birnbaum. He stared at _In the Sights_ every time he was in the parlor, but never picked it up. Until finally, one day a week later, he did. He _needed_ to know the ending. He needed to know if Snape was able to give it a happy ending. He doubted it; it didn't fit his personality, the miserable git.

He was displeased to find out that he had been right. Snape had changed the details, but it was just as bleak as it had been in real life. Instead of suffering a burst of accidental magic, Mary Johannsson suffered a severe panic attack and asphyxiated due to her asthma. Mary's mother was still just as deluded and broken, and the family fell apart just as it had in his case.

Harry didn't like the ending. He hated sad endings, and he hated that Snape hadn't changed his ending to be at least a _little_ happier. Just because Snape had lived through awful things didn't mean he had to put his readers through that pain, too. 

Harry felt a twisting surge of pity rise in his chest for the man — Snape had such a bleak outlook on life. Of course, if anyone had a reason to feel that way, it was Snape. Snape never got his happy ending. At Hogwarts, he was an outcast; a freak. And then during the war, for years, he was forced to play the spy, never really belonging to one side or the other. Even when the war was over, he obviously felt as though he didn't belong, fleeing to the Muggle world. If Snape's life read like a book, it would be a depressing one.

\---

A week later, Harry realized something. He didn't like Snape; he never had, but he _did_ owe him. Snape had given up so much for the war — for _Harry_. Harry had sacrificed his life (or been willing to, at least), but Snape had sacrificed his entire existence. It grated on him that he was out living his life and Snape still hadn't gotten his happy ending. Harry owed Snape, and he wanted to pay him back some way. Not with sex, of course, but maybe he could make Snape's life a little better, somehow.

He grabbed a quill and parchment before he could lose his nerve. "Dear Snape," he scrawled. "Your book has a really depressing ending. I'd like to talk about it. Will you meet me this weekend? Wherever and whenever works for you." He sealed it before he could change his mind, marched over to the owlery, and sent his missive.

When Harry received Snape's reply a couple hours later, he was surprised that Snape had gotten back to him so quickly. He was surprised that Snape had gotten back to him at all. "Potter," the letter said, "anything you'd like to say to me can be said over owl". Potter beckoned Snape's owl over and asked it to wait for him to write a response. The owl raised its beak scornfully.

"Dear Snape, I'm not annoyed about the book. I thought it was really good, if a bit depressing. I just want to talk to you. Please?" he wrote.

An hour later, the owl arrived, looking even more displeased. He could have sworn he saw it sneer. "No," the letter said.

"Please?" Harry responded.

"Fine." Snape wrote. Harry gave the bedraggled owl a triumphant look.

"Great! How about Friday at 8pm. Let's meet at Zaffrani. It's a Muggle Indian place in Islington." He hesitated for a moment, then signed off as "- Harry."

\---

Fifteen minutes past their meeting time on Friday, an increasingly annoyed Harry was still sitting alone at the table he'd reserved at Zaffrani. _I can't believe he stood me up!_ he thought indignantly. _Wait, yes I can. Snape probably lives for this shit. I bet he's imagining me waiting here all alone, looking like I've been stood up for a date. In an hour, the waiter is going to come over and take pity on me and give me a free drink, or a complimentary naan or something —_

The door of the restaurant banged open, and Harry watched as Snape stalked in imperiously, the wind flaring his Muggle overcoat dramatically behind him. For a moment, Harry had an intense flashback to his whirling black Potions Master's robes. He unwillingly felt a small grin twist his lips. It was just so classically Snape.

Snape strode over to the table, whisked off his overcoat, and sat down elegantly in the chair across from Harry, crossing one lanky leg over the other.

"Well?" he asked, one eyebrow arched high. "What do you want, Potter? Let's get this over with; I'd really rather be anywhere but here."

Harry scowled before rearranging his expression into something more neutral, with great effort. "Then why did you come?"

Snape pursed his lips. "I thought it might be amusing to berate you, for old time's sake."

"Great," Harry said. It was not great. "So, how are you, Snape?"

Snape looked at him with disgust. "I was far better before you nearly killed my owl from exhaustion with your egotistical demands. I shouldn't be surprised. You're the same as ever. Harry Potter must get what Harry Potter wants, all others be damned."

"I meant more in the grand scheme of things. Like, what are you up to nowadays?" Harry winced instantly. Snape was writing porn nowadays.

Snape stared at him in disbelief. "What am I up to? You know damn well. Or is your brain so vacuous that any piece of information that enters it is instantly sucked into oblivion?"

Harry tried a different tack. "I liked _In the Sights_. I didn't know you were such a good writer."

"Potter, you wouldn't know good writing if it fucked your wife right in front of you."

Harry stared at him, and the shape his lips made when he said the word "fucked." It was oddly hypnotizing. He couldn't believe Severus Snape had just dropped an f-bomb.

"Haven't got a wife," Harry said, once he had rehinged his jaw. "Gin and I broke up after the war."

Snape was inscrutable as always, but Harry could swear he seemed a bit surprised. "Who would think that a Weasley could have some sense." 

At this, Harry did lose his cool. "Hey! It's one thing to insult me, but don't start on my friends," he snapped. Then he sighed, and gathered himself, and said, "Let's order some food."

Snape merely curled his lip. His right incisor was snaggle-toothed and it caught on his thin bottom lip. Harry took this as a sign of assent and called the waiter over, ordering a pint for himself with the directive to keep them coming.

Snape then went on an expressive and acerbic tirade against Harry for the better part of twenty minutes, using a variety of colorful phrases and, at one point, making several rude and imaginative comparisons to a menagerie of magical creatures _(was "as disgusting as a blast-ended skrewt" even a real idiom?)_. Snape seemed to get more and more animated, eyes sparkling with malicious glee. Harry was surprised to realize that once he stopped listening to the insults, it was actually kind of fun to watch him. Harry sat back, let the deluge of abuse go over his head, and studied the man.

Snape looked different than he had in school. His hair was just as lank and shiny, but it wasn't greasy anymore. Harry supposed it was because he no longer had potions fumes diffusing into it all day long. And the Muggle clothes weren't bad on him, either. He was wearing a black cotton twill button-up, but the first two buttons had been left undone. His robes had always gone all the way up to his neck, and Harry thought the new look suited him better. 

"You look good in Muggle clothes, Snape. I like them," he interrupted, not really knowing why he had said it.

Snape gave him a very odd look. He didn't say anything for a little while. Then he said, "Potter, if you think that, I should probably burn the whole lot." Harry smiled at him; Snape looked even more caught off-guard. 

"Why did you write me as your main character if you hate me so much?" Harry asked.

"Astonishing as it is, Potter, not everything is about you," he responded, black eyes unreadable. Harry gave him a look.

" _If_ I based my character on you — and that is a big if — it would be because your character translated well to paper. As gormless and dull you may be in real life, you're not bad to write," he admitted superciliously. 

"And the sex scene?" Harry pried. Snape's eyes blazed with fury.

" _Obviously_ that part had nothing to do with you. No one would be so stupid to suggest that the _golden boy_ likes cock."

"Oh, actually, you were right about that part — I _love_ cock. What I _don't_ like, however, is having sex with sources in an ongoing criminal investigation." Harry said, wondering why he had told Snape that. He probably just wanted to see the expression that it pulled. 

It was a very amusing one. Snape's jaw fell a couple millimeters, which was practically gaping for him.

They conducted the rest of their meal with minimal conversation, Harry considering that perhaps he didn't completely hate Snape; Snape presumably digesting the information that Harry was gagging for cock. When they finished eating, Harry smiled at Snape. He glowered back. "This was fun," he said mildly. "Shall we do it again next week? Same time?"

Snape looked livid, and Harry actually felt himself flinch back. "When will you get it through your thick skull that I don't want your fucking pity, Potter?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's kind of impossible to pity someone who's spent the last hour insulting you."

"Why on earth would you want to repeat this?" Snape asked.

Harry shrugged, then said, "I had fun. You're not too bad, Snape." Snape examined him as though he were wondering if he should cart Harry off to a sanitarium. But he inclined his head.

\---

Harry sat at his desk on Friday, eating a corned beef sandwich and wondering why he was so cheerful about meeting Snape again. He liked the look on Snape's face when he was coming up with particularly creative insults — those glittering black eyes — but Harry liked the look when he surprised him even more. It was more open, more vulnerable.

He bade Margaret farewell as soon as he could and rushed home, thinking over things to say that would shock Snape. They needed to be truthful, or Snape would see right through him.

Harry thought about arriving fifteen minutes late, just to give Snape a taste of his own medicine, but he doubted Snape would stay waiting for him. So he arrived on time and Snape was late, again, and didn't apologize, again. Snape started in on his insults, and Harry waited patiently for an in. Snape took a breath, and Harry said:

"The sorting hat originally wanted to place me in Slytherin."

Snape regarded him scornfully. "As if," he said.

"It's true."

Snape looked discomfited. Harry smiled serenely.

"I apologize for all the trouble I put you through when I was in school."

Snape didn't reply.

"You look really good, Snape. You look handsome like this."

Snape looked suspicious. _I wonder if he knows I'm doing this on purpose,_ Harry wondered. 

"You're doing this on purpose to try to get a rise out of me, aren't you?" Snape asked, eyes narrowed.

_How the hell did he know?_ Harry asked himself, trying to school his features into something neutral.

"It's obvious," Snape answered.

_Is he using legilimency on me?_

"I'm not using legilimency on you."

_He totally is! The git!_

"I'm really not."

_Then how do you know what I'm thinking?_

"It's written all over your face, you halfwit."

_Oh really? Severus Snape has an enormous schlong._

"You're thinking, 'What am I thinking now?'"

_Hm. I guess he wasn't reading my mind._

"I guessed wrong, then?"

Harry couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole situation, Harry sitting there pulling faces and Snape carrying on the one-sided conversation. "That was kind of absurd," he said, still chuckling. To his surprise, the corners of Snape's mouth tilted up slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Harry tilted his face to get a better look at it. He looked so different like this.

Snape stopped smiling, and Harry wanted it back.

"You look good when you smile," he told Snape, but this only succeeded in angering him. 

"I'm well aware of how I look, Potter," he spat. "You've already gotten your rise out of me, made me look the fool. But of course you'd be cruel. I shouldn't have expected anything different."

"I'm not being cruel! It's the truth," Harry defended himself, startled at how quickly Snape's mood had changed. "You just said my emotions are written on my face. You tell me if I'm lying: you look good when you smile." Snape glared at his face intensely for a moment, and Harry tried not to feel uncomfortable. _It's true_ , he thought ardently, _you do look good when you smile_. Snape seemed taken aback, then a little bit flattered, then angry again, and finally settled on uncomfortable. His face flushed a bit.

Harry got the bill, then smiled at him and asked, "Same time next week?"

"Fine," he replied tersely, frustration and confusion evident on his face.

\---

And just like that, Harry suddenly had standing dinner plans with Snape every Friday.

On the next weekend, they had Italian. Harry ordered a pepperoni pizza and Snape mocked him after ordering homemade pappardelle with wild boar ragout. 

"So what _have_ you been up to?" Harry asked. "Other than writing, of course. No one's seen you in Diagon in years."

"That's because I haven't been in Diagon in years," Snape replied, twirling the pappardelle elegantly around his fork.

Merlin, talking to Snape was like pulling teeth, but it was fun, when he finally opened up. "And why is that?" Harry prompted. 

"Because I don't want to," Snape said.

"And why is that?" Harry asked, feeling like an underpaid therapist.

Snape pursed his thin lips.

"If you must know, Potter, it's because I'm far happier in the Muggle world where no one has any expectations of me. People hated me during the war, and they still hate me after it — never mind I risked my bloody life for them. In the Muggle world, people just like me because I'm a good writer; they don't know or care about who I am." 

"Snape, people don't hate you! How could you say that? You have an Order of Merlin, for Circe's sake. We're — _I'm_ so grateful to you," Harry said earnestly.

Snape snorted sarcastically. "Because I did it all for you. _Harry Potter's grateful! My dreams came true!_ " he said nastily. "And for the record, people _do_ hate me. Before I left the wizarding world, even after the ministry gave me that stupid medal, I would walk down the streets and people would _glare_ , and pull their children away from me — and that was the least of it."

Harry felt a flash of anger at those people, whoever they were. "You could come back, Snape. Tensions were still high back then, but it's way calmer now."

Snape shook his head. "You don't get it, Potter. I don't _want_ to come back. I'm perfectly happy where I am."

"Don't you miss it?" Harry asked. "Don't you miss potions?"

"You don't need a castle and a dungeon to make potions, Potter. A Bunsen burner works just fine."

"But you're happy?" Harry asked, "In the Muggle world?"

Snape looked annoyed, and a bit suspicious. "Not that I see how it's any of your business, but yes, I like it just fine."

\---

"I know this is a really personal question, but were you in love with my mother?" Harry asked Snape. They were at a Mediterranean restaurant this time.

"I fail to see how that concerns you," Snape spat. 

"I mean, she _was_ my mother. I do kind of have a personal connection."

"It doesn't matter anymore," Snape said.

"Didn't seem like that when you were saying _'always'_ ," Harry pointed out. "Please tell me? I heard so much about my father from Remus and Sirius, but I never got to know that much about my mother."

Snape looked conflicted, but he said, "Alright." He took a bite of his gyro and gathered his thoughts.

"She was a tomboy when we were growing up — always running around, climbing trees, scraping her knees. She hated wearing pink, or dresses, or anything feminine. She once tried to get me to help her cut off all her hair, but I was so worried her parents would tell her not to see me anymore, so I wouldn't help her. She didn't talk to me for days after that." Harry smiled softly, and Snape seemed to relax a bit.

"Her parents got her an electric guitar for Christmas her first year at Hogwarts. She loved rock-and-roll, and I suppose her parents were trying to encourage her interest in music, but she was awful at it. Completely tone deaf. Whenever she'd forget the chords, which was often, she'd just put her fingers wherever and slam on the strings. It was terrible, but hilarious. I loved to sit there while she played, and clap my hands over my ears at the particularly awful parts. She would just laugh and say, 'Hey Sev, if I'm so bad, why don't you try?'"

"Did you ever try it?" Harry asked.

"Maybe once, but I wasn't like Lily. She was so unselfconscious; she never cared if she was making a fool of herself." 

"Were you in love with her?" Harry asked again. Snape sighed, but reluctantly gave in.

"I don't know. I loved her so much — still love her — more than anything. I think I was in love with her," Snape said, "but perhaps only platonically. It was never like _that_ with us. But I didn't realize I was queer until quite late." 

"I think I would have gotten along with her, if we were both kids," Harry said.

Snape raised an eyebrow, and seemed to snap back to himself. "You'd have gotten along with James Potter and his ilk," he said, any trace of a smile long gone.

"I hope so," Harry said unapologetically, "But I wouldn't have liked the bullying. The early years might've been tough."

"Please, Potter," Snape scoffed. "You were just like him."

Harry felt a surge of anger claw its way through him. "Look, Snape, I'm not going to sit here and insult my father. But you're even more deluded than I thought if you truly believe that my childhood was anything like James's. You saw my memories for yourself! You saw Dudley beat me up over and over, you saw me in that cupboard, all the horrible things the Dursleys said to me. I'm not asking for your sympathy or anything. I'm over all that, but you have to admit I was hardly coddled. You saw what you wanted to see and you completely ignored everything else that was right in front of your face. You were cruel and unfair to me, and I know you're never going to apologize — perhaps you still believe you were right — but I want you to listen to me. I never wanted fame, I never wanted glory. Do you know what I saw when I looked into the Mirror of Erised? I saw my parents, my family. _That's_ what I wanted. Do you understand?"

Snape had been getting increasingly uncomfortable throughout Harry's rant, but by the end he had bottled himself up all nice and tight, and stared at Harry with unreadable eyes. Harry fidgeted.

"Do you understand?" Harry repeated, more quietly this time.

Snape continued to look at him, then said, "Perhaps I was wrong."

Harry felt the tension bleed out of him as he stared back into those eyes. Was that a hint of guilt he saw?

"You _were_ wrong," said Harry.

"Yes. I was wrong. But don't you see, Potter? I _had_ to hate you, or the plan wouldn't have worked. Occlumency isn't infallible. In order to truly deceive someone when they look into your mind, your emotions must have some truth to them. When the Dark Lord looked into my mind, I could show him my hatred of you, and he would believe me loyal." Snape explained measuredly.

"Do you hate me?" Harry asked pathetically.

"I hated who I thought you were," Snape answered.

"Do you hate me now?" Harry pressed, perplexed by his own desperation.

"Do you take me for the type of person to willingly spend time with someone I hate?" Snape asked, almost kindly. "Foolish boy," he said, with a hint of a smile, and some other emotion that Harry couldn't quite place.

\---

This time, Harry and Snape were in a dingy pub. Harry couldn't help but think that Snape looked right at home here, leaning back against the dark oak booth, shadows playing flatteringly on his face. Harry blushed a bit, then wondered why he had blushed, then stuffed a chip in his mouth. 

Harry smiled as a new song came on over the speakers. 

_Hey… Hey baby. I want to know… if you'll be my girl_ , the singer crooned, and Harry bobbed along to the music, grinning. Snape rolled his eyes, looking put upon, but Harry could tell he was forcing down a smile.

"Do you know this song?" Harry asked, grooving semi-awkwardly on his side of the bench.

Snape raised an eyebrow disparagingly. "It's from before you were born," he said.

"It's in _Dirty Dancing_ ," Harry responded. "Hermione showed it to me a couple of months ago. I love that movie."

Snape scoffed. "You would," he said, but it didn't sound like an insult.

Harry waggled his eyebrows and grabbed his beer bottle, holding it like a microphone. " _She's so pretty, she's so fine; I'm gonna make her mine, all mine,_ " he sang along, exaggerating his expressions, leering absurdly at Snape across the booth. Snape shook his head, but he was blushing charmingly. Harry finished the song, becoming increasingly ridiculous, and Snape just sat there and let him serenade him.

When he was done, Snape just shook his head and said, "I guess tone deafness is genetic. That sounded like a dying kneazle. I'm selling that memory to the _Prophet_ , Potter."

"Oh no!" Harry gasped, "I'll be ruined!"

\---

Harry had cooked for Snape at Grimmauld place, a nice sirloin that was impossible to fuck up. Snape had gradually loosened up over the course of the month, more mischievous teasing than cutthroat barbs, looking less perturbed and more bemused each time Harry paid him a compliment — though he always studied Harry's face cautiously.

"You have nice hands," Harry said, as he watched Snape's fingers curl around his knife and cut his steak into precise bites. Snape studied him.

"Why are you doing this, Potter?" he asked tiredly.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I told you; because I had fun the last five times."

Snape shook his head. "Not that. Why are you… complimenting me?"

"It's all true," Harry said simply.

"No one ever…" Snape trailed off, eyes screwing shut in pain and humiliation.

"Well, they should. It'll be my job from now on," Harry said matter-of-factly. Snape shook his head, eyes still closed.

"Potter —" he started, but Harry interrupted him. "I think you should call me Harry."

Snape opened his eyes to protest, but Harry stared him down until he yielded.

"Harry, then. I know you believe you're telling the truth; you seem to have deluded yourself. It's not true. I don't have a nice smile, I don't look good in Muggle clothes, my hair doesn't look soft, I don't smell good, I don't have a striking face, and my hands are not nice."

"Have you ever thought that maybe it _is_ the truth, and you're the one who's wrong?" Harry asked gently.

"That's ridiculous," Snape scoffed, but it was ruined by his still-pained expression.

"Is it really? I think it makes perfect sense."

"You're mad, Potter," he said.

"Harry," he corrected him with an expectant look. Snape sighed, rolled his eyes, and said grudgingly, "You can call me Severus." Harry beamed at him, and Severus gave him a closed-lip smile, two spots of color high on his cheeks. Harry couldn't help but feel his heart swell.

\---

As Harry got into bed that night, he caught a glimpse of the cover of _In the Sights_. It was funny, he had spent so much time thinking about the enigma that was Snape — no, Severus — that he hadn't had much time to think about the book. But as he stared at the cover, he couldn't help but remember how he had fantasized about Matthew Birnbaum. He had fantasized about Snape.

And the thought didn't weird him out anymore. Sure, Severus wasn't traditionally attractive, but he was sexy in his own way. He had those nimble fingers Harry had imagined, and those long, long legs. His nose was quite large and hooked, but it only served to accentuate the other angles of his face — the high cheekbones, the narrow but sharp jawline. But Severus had something else about him, something that couldn't be adequately described. He had this animalistic magnetism to him. It was in his clever, inscrutable, devouring eyes and the way he moved with purpose. Severus walked with grace, but in the way that a panther stalks its prey gracefully.

Harry pictured Severus striding up to Harry's bed, dark eyes fixed on him, and felt his cock fatten. Fantasy-Severus's eyes darkened, swept down his body, and fixed hungrily on Harry's rapidly growing member. Harry groaned, feeling inordinately guilty, but he figured it was within his rights given that Severus had written Harry into a fucking sex scene. Gods, Severus had _written Harry into a sex scene_. His cock was fully hard now, and he slipped a hand into his pajama bottoms. He closed his eyes and imagined gazing into Severus's appreciative eyes as he slid a finger over the slit, then down his length. _More_ , the Severus specter seemed to say. _Show me more_. Harry shuddered, then sat up in bed, eyes still closed to preserve his fantasy. He pulled his oversized tee off and laid back down, running his free hand over his body. _I want to watch you pleasure yourself_ , Severus said huskily. Harry took a nipple between his fingers and rolled it, giving Severus a show. He arched his back off the bed and moaned loudly. _Show me your cock_ , Severus said, and Harry yanked his bottoms off and spread his legs to give him a good view. He ran his hand down his cock and pulled on his bollocks, lifting them so Severus could see everything. Still standing at the foot of his bed, Severus bit his lip and ran a knuckle down across his front zip, over his bulge. Harry spread his legs even farther, hands hooked behind his knees, feet pulling off the bed as he exposed himself. _Don't you want me?_ he asked the vision. _Yes_ , Severus answered. Harry threw his head back. _Then come take me_. But Severus merely smirked; not a mean smirk, but one that promised lascivious things. _Not yet_ , Severus said. _I want to watch you this time_. 

Harry put his feet back down and began pumping his fist, hips moving in time. Severus leaned against one of the posts and stroked a light hand over his bulge. When Harry licked a finger and brushed it over his nipple, moaning, Severus finally reached a hand into his trousers. Harry could see the hand moving. _Show me your cock_ , Harry begged, _I want to see it_. Severus just gave a low, warm chuckle, eyes crinkling, and Harry gasped. _I'm not going to last much longer_ , he told the specter. _Yes, you will_ , Severus answered. _You'll stop when I tell you to, and you won't come until I let you. Is that understood?_ Gasping and trembling, Harry nodded. _Good. Stop now._

Harry snatched his hand off his cock, trying to keep from coming. Eventually, he felt himself recede from the edge. _Good boy_ , Severus said. _Now do it again._

In his fantasy, Severus brought him to the verge of orgasm four more times. Finally, Harry couldn't take it anymore. _Please, Severus, please let me come. I'll do anything,_ he begged. Severus smiled. _Come, then_ , he said. Harry's hips lifted off the bed, and with a guttural scream, he came all over himself. It shot into the air and landed on his stomach and chest, and as he gazed up at Severus, he swiped a finger through the fluid, brought it up to his lips, and sucked on the digit, and then Severus came as well.

Harry sat up and opened his eyes to his empty room, and desperately wished that it had been real. "Fuck," he stated out loud. "I've got it bad for Severus Snape." He slumped back onto the bed, feeling much better now that he had admitted and orgasmed over it.

\---

"I have something to tell you guys," he said to Ron and Hermione once they had settled in the parlor, bellies full of takeaway.

"If you're going to come out again, don't bother," Ron joked.

"Har har," Harry said dryly. "Do you remember when I said that I was going to give the Matthew Birnbaum thing a rest?" They nodded. "I didn't actually give up." They regarded him placidly. 

"We figured," Hermione admitted. "Did you find him?"

"Yes," Harry said.

"Well, who is it?" Ron asked.

"It's….Snape." Hermione looked flabbergasted; Ron looked nauseated.

"I would not have expected that," Hermione muttered.

"That's awful," Ron said sympathetically. Harry squirmed uncomfortably.

"Well… it's actually not that awful. I found out two months ago, and at first it _was_ kind of awful, but then I started having dinner with him —"

"Why?" Ron interjected incredulously.

"That's not important right now. Anyway, I started having dinner with him, and I got to know him and… I might… have a crush on him now."

"Ugh…" Ron said disgustedly.

"He looks a bit different now. His hair isn't greasy anymore."

"And?" Ron asked incredulously.

"Ron, I really can't explain it, but he's not like what we remember. He was a bit of a git at first, but he's really not anymore. It was a defense mechanism, I think. He's actually really clever, in a snarky sort of way."

"Mate, I'm sure you can find someone better to rebound on. Literally anyone else would be better," Ron said, looking concerned.

"I don't know about that," mused Hermione. "I think I understand. He's got that tall, dark, and mysterious thing going on. And don't you remember how obsessed Harry was with the Half-Blood Prince? I've always thought he was your first crush. You used to sit up at night giggling over that book."

"I do not giggle, thank you," Harry said. "But yes, you see what I mean? It was hard to see it before because we hated him as a person, but when I didn't know who the Prince was, I liked him. And now that we're… friends, I guess... it's different. I like him."

"But he's so ugly," Ron lamented.

"He's not really that ugly, Ron," Harry said. "I mean, he's not super attractive, but he's not ugly. He's attract _ing_."

"I see it." Hermione nodded.

"I absolutely do _not_ see it," Ron said.

Hermione scoffed. "You're incredibly straight, Ron."

"Oi! I'm not a homophobe!" he exclaimed.

"I'm not saying that." She patted his arm placatingly. "It's just different. You might be able to tell if a man is conventionally attractive, just based on what we're socialized to look for, but you can't really understand _feeling_ attraction for another man."

Ron stared at her for a moment, then looked at Harry. He sighed. "You two are barmy. I don't like it. But go for it, I guess. If you must."

Hermione nodded in agreement. "I think you should follow your heart, Harry, but please do be careful. He's been quite cruel in the past, and if that's his defense mechanism you should probably prepare yourself for some nasty fights. You need to take a good, long look at yourself and figure out if this is actually what you want, because if you figure out later that you don't want it, he'll probably never forgive you."

Harry smiled in relief at his friends. "Thanks, guys," he said, loving them very much. "But we're honestly getting way ahead of ourselves here. I have no idea if he even wants me back."

Hermione laughed. "Of course he does, Harry! Haven't you read that book?" She gave him a wink, and Ron smiled weakly, looking green. 

\---

Harry and Severus had decided to go on a picnic the next Saturday, so Harry made dinner for himself alone on Friday night. He made way too much, looked confusedly at the pot, and realized he had subconsciously made Severus a portion. 

He'd been doing this the whole week. He'd read something funny, then turn to the chair next to him only to realize it was empty. Or he'd do something stupid, and wait for Severus to start in on the teasing. And he thought about Severus all the time — in the shower, late at night in bed, even once as he leaned against the kitchen counter. 

It was easy to figure out that he wanted more than sex with Severus. Harry wanted his whole snarky, biting, sarcastic, witty, clever person. He wanted to wake up early on a Sunday morning next to him and slip out of bed to start cooking breakfast. He wanted to make him pancakes and waffles and omelettes and hash browns and bacon and muffins. He wanted to hear Severus tread sleepily into the kitchen, roll his eyes at the sheer quantity of food Harry had produced, declare him wasteful, and then load up his plate with a little of everything. He wanted to giggle when Severus got a bit of syrup on his chin and reach over to wipe it off with his thumb. Severus would scowl, but Harry would be able to see the sparkle in his eyes.

Once he had let the tidal wave of emotions flow, there was no turning back. He wanted Severus: mind, body, and soul. They would have fights, sure, but Harry would know that Severus didn't mean the hurtful things he said. Severus seemed like he was wary to allow himself any happiness, choosing instead to destroy his hope before it had the chance to blossom. And even understanding this, Harry was sure he would end up saying some dumb, insensitive things, but Severus would let him know in no small way that he didn't like it. Harry knew that they just _worked_ together. He had never seen Severus smile the way that Harry had made him. Sure, he had seen him smirk at McGonagall after winning a Quidditch bet, but not that slow, pure little smile with the crinkling eyes. Harry knew definitively that he wanted to spend the rest of his life making Severus smile like that.

\---

Harry reclined on the gingham picnic blanket and looked over at Severus. He was leaning back on his elbows, legs crossed at the ankles. Severus was wearing a white linen shirt that had come untucked a bit at the edges. It was open at the top and Harry caught a glimpse of a sharp collarbone. He wanted to lick it.

"Hermione said something funny yesterday, but it was totally true," he said.

Severus glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Hmm?"

"She was saying that the Half-Blood Prince was my first crush, and I didn't realize it at the time."

"That's absurd," Severus said.

"She was right. I didn't really understand it, but I used to be obsessed with the Prince. I was practically in love with him."

"It must have been jarring to realize it was me," Severus said, not looking happy.

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. Now that I know you, it's obvious. You just have a filthier vocabulary, now."

Severus turned to look at him.

"I used to stay up late reading that book, laughing at all the little notes in the margin. You're really funny."

"The Prince was a bit of an alter ego for me," Severus admitted. "I probably read too many comics as a child."

"I wonder what my alter-ego would be," Harry mused aloud. One corner of Severus's mouth turned up.

"Not famous enough?" he teased. "Need to moonlight as a superhero?"

Harry laughed. "I'd be shit at it. The Half-Blood Prince and the Dim-Witted Dunce: tackling crime and poor potions recipes one at a time."

Severus smiled a bit wider, a slip of yellow teeth appearing. Harry loved it.

"I'd probably write awful directions in the margins of my Defense textbook," he continued. "Like, 'the only way to defeat a Sphinx is by punching it in the face,' or 'to defeat a kappa, snog it passionately until it swoons in your arms and spills the water out of it's head-hole'."

Severus laughed at this, head thrown back, pure and wide. His smile was yellow and crooked and a bit terrible, but oh _god_ , so beautiful. Eyes squinched closed, chest shaking, a small flush on his neck. Harry was breathless. He didn't know Severus could look like that, so gorgeous and pure.

Severus looked over at him, eyes friendly and mirthful. In the bright afternoon light, they were a dark, rich, warm chocolate brown. Harry looked down at where Severus's incisor poked into his lip, petal-pink and soft and delectable.

Harry desperately wanted to kiss him; he wanted to sink his own teeth into that lip and nibble on it. So he leaned over and slipped a hand behind Severus's head, through the fine, silky threads of hair. Severus stared up at him, confused, eyes flicking between Harry's eyes and Harry's lips. Harry drew closer to him, gazing deep into his widening eyes, and he closed the distance.

He pressed his lips to Severus softly. Severus didn't move, but Harry kissed him gently, as if not to startle him. When Harry ran the tip of his tongue over Severus's bottom lip — that bottom lip that came to him in his dreams — Severus made the most delicious noise Harry had ever heard, almost a whimper. 

But as soon as the noise left his lips, Severus tensed in his arms, every muscle going rigid. _Uh oh_ , Harry thought, pulling back. 

Anxiety was writ on his face, mixed with a terrible, heartbreaking array of anger and fear and dread.

"I shouldn't have done that without your consent," Harry apologized. Severus's face flushed in anger, and maybe self-pity.

"Why would you do that at all?" Severus snarled, eyes blazing. "You thought it would be fun to humiliate me? You thought it would be fun to see how the dirty old pervert would react? You wanted to get back at me for writing about you?"

"Because I wanted to," Harry explained patiently. "I like you. I don't care about the book; I told you, I liked it."

"Why on earth could you possibly want to —" he grimaced, looking down at the picnic blanket, "to… _kiss_ me? Your greasy, miserable old potions professor?" 

"Severus," Harry said soothingly, "I don't know why you think of yourself like that. It's not true." He cupped a hand around Severus's cheek, and said, "Hey, look at me. Read my face. You can use legilimency, if you'd like," waiting for Severus to look up at him.

"I won't use legilimency," he murmured. 

"For starters, you're not a greasy potions professor anymore, but that doesn't matter. It wouldn't change anything. I don't know why you find yourself miserable; you delight me constantly. You make me laugh and smile and think about you until my brain turns into mush from sheer happiness. You should see the way you look when you laugh — I don't think I've seen anything better. I _like_ you, Severus Snape, because you're amazing and smart and funny and sexy." 

"You couldn't," Severus said, but although he looked disbelieving, Harry could see a little glimmer of hope.

"I absolutely can," Harry said. "I don't see how I could not."

"You don't want me," Severus said.

"Tell that to my heart. And my cock," he said. Severus grimaced again, and Harry could've hit himself for that blunder.

"I'm not how you think I am," Severus said.

Harry raised an eyebrow, channeling his inner Severus. "I know you."

Severus shook his head. "Whatever you expected from Matthew Birnbaum, that scene, that's not me. I'm not…. like that."

"You don't like sex?" Harry asked. He didn't mind, he would happily spend the rest of his life by Severus's side either way. Severus bit his lip.

"I probably do. I'm not sure yet," he said. Harry's brows furrowed in confusion.

"Merlin, Potter, do you need me to say it for you?" he asked exasperatedly, cheeks red and blotchy.

"I think so?"

"I don't have… experience," Severus said, looking as though he wanted to disappear. He composed himself, eyes hardening. "Any experience. So whatever you thought I could do, whatever you were picturing, the reality pales. You'd be very disappointed."

Harry's eyes widened. _Severus Snape, the man who walked like jungle cat, who wrote like a porn star, who talked like a siren, had never had sex. Had never had anything._

"I'm leaving," Severus announced, sitting up and gathering his jacket.

"Wait!" Harry exclaimed. "Don't leave! I don't care. Don't you know how obsessed I am with you?"

"Don't lie, Potter," he said, pushing his arm roughly through the sleeve of his jacket. Harry put a quelling hand on him.

"It's Harry. And I'm not lying to you; I don't mind that you're a virgin. It's actually kind of… sexy." And it was, Harry thought. The idea that Severus had never been touched, that he was pure, that Harry might be the one to finally touch him. The idea that he would be deflowered, that Harry would be his first. That Harry would make him feel those sensations he had fantasized about as Matthew Birnbaum but had never experienced in real life. He wanted to be the one to show Severus how amazing it could be. Not like in _In the Sights_ — though that could come later, if Severus wanted it — he wanted to cherish and covet and pleasure him the way he deserved.

"I want you," Harry said, feeling like he might die if he couldn't convince Severus of his feelings. He squeezed Severus's hand. "I want you so much it feels like my heart is going to burst. Don't you want me too?"

Severus didn't say anything, just looked searchingly into Harry's eyes. He gave a slight, timid incline of his head.

"Please tell me," Harry implored. "I don't want to do anything you don't want. I don't want you to feel pressured to make me happy."

Severus swallowed thickly and squeezed Harry's hand back. "I want you," he whispered, then looked surprised at his own boldness. Harry beamed at him, and bit his lip, feeling his heart throb joyfully, and took Severus's face back into his hand, thumb caressing over the sharp cheekbone, and slid the other arm around his waist.

"Can I kiss you again?" Harry asked.

"Please." Severus said, so open, so yearning. 

This time, when Harry touched his lips to Severus's, he opened underneath him like a blooming flower. Those thin, pale lips parted with a soft sigh, and Severus kissed him back so sweetly. _How can someone who writes smut so filthy kiss so sweetly?_ Harry wondered. This time, when he slipped his tongue between Severus's lips, Severus didn't hold back his soft moan. It hit Harry like a shot to the gut, and within seconds he was rock hard, blood rushing south so quickly his head spun. He wanted to devour Severus, corrupt him, but he held back. It was too perfect the way it was, so soft and innocent. He ran his fingers through the midnight-black locks, marvelling at the feel. Harry worked his tongue slowly, first just a brush on the other man's tongue, then he delved a little deeper, caressing Severus. He thought he could lose himself in the undulating roll of their tongues. He could do it forever until he suffocated. 

Severus placed his hands tentatively on Harry's biceps, and Harry groaned. _Fuck_ , but he wanted him. He parted their lips to catch his breath, and laid Severus down on the blanket. He looked like a dream, dark hair splayed on the red and white checkers, his lips shiny and swollen, eyes wide and dilated. As he gazed into those eyes, he saw a shred of doubt enter them, and he couldn't have that.

"You look like a dream," he told him.

Severus blushed further and shook his head, but the doubt receded, and Severus gently pulled Harry in by the arms, sighing as their lips reconnected, and caressed the backs of Harry's arms. Harry felt himself get lost in the languid tangle of tongues, shivering when Severus ran a hand up his shoulder, over the nape of his neck and into his hair. He couldn't help himself, with Severus laid out beneath him like a gift, and slid a hand down Severus's side, caressing his waist through the linen shirt.

Severus gasped into his mouth, so responsive, arching off the blanket. Harry felt Severus' erection brush his thigh lightly, and he groaned.

"Sorry," Severus said, flustered.

"Don't be," Harry responded, rolling his hips down onto Severus so that he could feel that Harry was just as aroused. Severus tightened his grip on Harry's arm and let his head fall back, exposing his pale neck. Harry felt like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet — he wanted to lick his jawline, nibble on his earlobes, tongue over his voice box, but mostly he wanted to frot against Severus until he came in his pants. He heaved a breath, got himself under control, and descended onto Severus's neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses down it, and then sucked along Severus's sharp collarbone.

"Gods, I want you so much," he breathed into Severus's neck.

"We're in the middle of a park," Severus retorted breathlessly. "What are you going to do, take me here?"

"Are you trying to kill me?" Harry groaned. "Tell me what you want, Severus."

"Everything."

Harry pulled himself up. "Everything?" he repeated.

"That is what I just said, yes."

"Oh gods, you want — you want — ?" he couldn't even finish his sentence, he was so turned on. Severus nodded. "Now?" He asked. Severus nodded again. "I want it now," he said.

"Fuck. Fuck, yes. I'm side-alonging you," Harry said, then promptly apparated them to Grimmauld Place, abandoning the picnic blanket and the wicker basket and everything else. They collapsed on the couch, and Harry set to immediately ridding them of their clothes. He ripped Severus's shirt off and heard a couple buttons pinging to the ground, then reached a hand to his own back between his shoulder blades, pulling his tee over his head in one swift motion. Harry pulled Severus back into a kiss, hands running over the other man's lean, pale body. Harry couldn't believe it — he had Severus in his arms, moaning as Harry touched him, twitching when Harry traced a soft finger around and over a nipple.

"You're gorgeous," he said, bending down to flick his tongue over the other nipple, slow and sensuous.

"I'm really not," Severus said.

"You are," Harry disagreed. "You're the sexiest fucking thing I've ever seen. Can't you tell what you do to me?" He took Severus's hand and drew it down to Harry's hardness. "This is what you do to me," he said. "This is how much I want you, how fucking hard you make me." Severus squeezed him lightly through the denim of his jeans, licking his lips, and Harry couldn't help but moan. But he wanted this to be about Severus's pleasure, so he slid off the couch and knelt between his legs. He ran a hand up the seam of his trousers and delighted in the feel of Severus's cock leaping under his fingers. Severus looked down at him, disbelieving and enraptured, and he gazed back up, seeking permission.

"Yes, yes," Severus said. " _Please_."

With that, Harry unzipped the trousers and pulled them down gently, along with Severus's pants. His cock caught on the fabric on the way down, then slapped back up against his stomach, already leaking and so, so hard. It was pale as the rest of him, flushed at the tip, long and large but not massive, and Harry smiled.

"I knew you'd have a gorgeous cock," he said, then slid his tongue over the slit, tasting the bitter liquid. Severus groaned and flexed his fingers, so sensitive just from one little lick, so Harry did it again, and again, and then finally wrapped his lips around Severus's length, bobbing his head a couple times, taking him in deep.

"Oh fuck," Severus moaned, gripping the cushions of the couch, trying to keep from writhing. "I can't…" he trailed off, and then, with a gasp, came in Harry's mouth. His head was thrown back, mouth open, but Harry couldn't see his expression from his position. Harry swallowed every drop, watching as Severus came back to himself, looked down and saw Harry gently lick the last of his come off of his softening prick. He blushed.

"That was….fast," he said abashedly. "I'm not usually…" he trailed off, looking off into a corner. 

"It was hot," Harry said, stroking his thighs, "to see you come undone like that." Severus still looked embarrassed, but a glint entered his eyes.

"Are you going to fuck me now?" he asked.

Harry groaned, feeling his dick pulse in his pants, frighteningly close to orgasm. "I think if I moved even an inch right now I would probably come."

"Maybe I should return the favor then," Severus suggested with a smirk. Harry let his head drop into Severus's lap, mind assaulted with filthy images.

"I want this to be about you," Harry said. "I want to make you feel good. Don't worry about me." 

"It's what I want," Severus countered. "Let me suck your cock, Harry," he said in a low tone, and pulled Harry up, switching their positions. He unzipped Harry's jeans, pulled out his cock, and gave it a little stroke. Inhaling sharply, Harry lifted his hips as Severus pulled his jeans the rest of the way down. For a moment, Severus just looked at Harry's cock, just _breathed_ on it, and then he locked eyes with Harry and licked up the length hesitantly. Harry let out a choked gasp, and Severus's eyes crinkled at the corners as he seemed to gain more confidence, mouthing around the head and whirling his tongue clumsily around the tip. "Fuck, baby," Harry sighed, "That feels amazing." Severus closed his eyes at that, moaning a little and taking him deeper, hand wrapping around the base, so Harry continued. "You look so good like that, sweetheart. Gods, your _mouth_! It's fucking sinful." Severus tried to take him deeper, but he couldn't and gagged, but even that felt amazing. He looked a bit embarrassed, but when Harry gasped, he renewed his energy into pumping his hand and dipping his head in tandem. 

"You're so good, babe; so, so good. I'm going to come — ah, pull off, _fuck_ , I don't want to choke you," Harry gasped, and Severus did pull off, but he jerked his hand faster and slipped down to sit beneath Harry. 

"Come on my face," Severus said, wanking him, bold as hell, eyes glinting. "I want you to claim me; I want your come all over me." Severus tilted his head back, his sweet, perfect lips open wide, eyes closed, and Harry had never seen anything so hot. Severus, unsullied and innocent, here was asking Harry to dirty him, to defile him. Harry came with a strained shout, and watched himself blow his load all over Severus's face. It streaked onto Severus — his lips, his cheek, into his mouth. Harry gasped in amazed incredulity, catching his breath, shocked at the sheer boldness and astounded at the image Severus made, jerking him softly now, covered in Harry's semen. Harry groaned as his dick throbbed, and another jot of come spurted weakly onto Severus's lips. Severus opened his eyes and licked those wicked lips, licked Harry's come right off them.

Harry slid off the couch, boneless, and collapsed onto Severus's naked form. He groped around the floor, finding his discarded tee, and brought it up to Severus's face, wiping the come off gently. When it was all gone, he threw the dirty shirt into the corner of the room and lay them out in front of the fireplace, covering Severus with his body like a blanket, protecting him from the cool air, whispering praises into Severus's ear.

"You're amazing, sweetheart," he murmured, licking the shell of his ear. "So lovely, so sweet," he continued, running his hand down Severus's body. "And sexy, and dirty," he continued, sliding his hand over the curve of his arse. Severus made a little noise. "I love it," Harry said, giving the flesh a good squeeze. "I can't wait to make love to you, baby."

Harry glanced down; Severus's cock had started to fill up again. "Do you want that?" he asked, kissing Severus's chest, lightly worrying a nipple with his teeth. "Do you want me to deflower you? Take your innocence, fill you up, tell you how beautiful you look with me inside you?"

He kissed the nipple, then ran his tongue down to Severus's navel, dipping into his belly button for a second with a playful gleam in his eye. He ran his fingers over Severus's hip bones, over the light dusting of leg hair, and latched his mouth onto Severus's skin, tasting the sweat, licking over the sharp hip. Severus was erect again, and Harry ran a finger up his length, slow and light, barely touching him at all. But Severus whimpered, and Harry ground down onto Severus's leg as Severus bucked up, trying to connect hard flesh with Harry's teasing hand. 

"Take me, Harry," he said. 

Harry crawled back up and kissed him deeply. He thrust his tongue into his mouth, where Severus sucked on it, and Harry nearly melted from the heat. 

"Let's go to bed," he said. He took Severus's hand and led him through the halls of Grimmauld, both butt-naked and obscenely aroused, and into Harry's bedroom. Severus perched himself on the bed, legs spread open, and Harry had to drink in the sight.

"You know, this is where I first realized how much I want you. Where I realized how much you turn me on. I was lying on the bed, wanking, picturing you here with me. Godric, the reality is so much better," Harry told him, pushing lightly on the other man's shoulders to get him to lie back. He knelt down, next to the bed, between Severus's legs again. But this time, he bypassed the hard, jutting member, instead taking Severus's thighs and placing them on his shoulders, and sucked his bollocks into his mouth, licking and rolling. He licked down the sensitive skin, tonguing Severus's perineum. It was so soft, and Harry delivered wet, smacking kisses to it, rolling Severus's bollocks in his hand until he was moaning.

"Turn over, honey," Harry said, voice husky. "I want to taste you everywhere."

Severus went red as a beet as he turned over, bent over the bed, hips humping slightly into the friction of Harry's duvet. Harry couldn't get over how debauched he looked — like he _needed_ to be fucked. "Spread yourself for me, sweetness. You have the most perfect arse, so round and tight. I can't wait to fuck it." As Severus held his cheeks apart, face buried into the bed from embarrassment and arousal, Harry mouthed the juncture where his arse met his hamstring, sinewy and taut. He licked his index finger and lightly ran it across Severus's hole, delivering a soft wandless cleaning charm, staring in fascination as it clenched and opened and clenched and opened.

"You have the prettiest little arsehole I've ever seen," Harry declared. "It's perfect — tiny and pink. I think I'll barely fit," he said and lightly swiped the tip of his tongue over the pucker, watching as it fluttered even more intensely. Severus gave a choked-off cry, clenching hard around nothing. Harry traced around the ring of muscle, then licked his hole with several light, short flicks, and Severus writhed underneath him. 

"You're delicious," Harry informed Severus before he delved his tongue even deeper into the other man's arse, feeling it loosen and quiver. As he began fucking Severus with his tongue, Severus cried out and grasped onto the bedsheets, prick leaking onto the covers. Harry ran light fingers over his perineum, over his bollocks, but still didn't touch his neglected member. "You taste so good," Harry said, pulling his mouth away and tracing Severus's entrance with two fingers. 

"Stay here, darling," he instructed him, slipping over to his bedside table to get the lube. "I'm going to get you so nice and wet for me. Sopping wet. Do you want that?"

Severus gasped, "Get on with it," and arched his arse up a little higher into the air, so Harry slipped one finger inside Severus's loosened, saliva-slick hole. He slid it an inch or two in and crooked it downwards, rubbing along the frontside of Severus's passage. When Severus cried out, Harry continued to tap that area lightly, slipping another finger in beside his first and licking gently around the rim. When he was up to three fingers, hand feeling slightly cramped, Severus cried out, "Just fuck me already! Don't be a tease!"

Harry kissed his right arsecheek and slowly pulled his fingers out of Severus's trembling body. "I don't want to hurt you," he said. "Get onto the bed properly and turn over onto your back, baby. I want to watch you come apart. I want to see your gorgeous face." And so Severus did just that, settling himself back on the bed, spreading his legs. Harry looked down at him where he was lying back on the bed, and marvelled at the picture. How could he have ever thought Severus ugly? He looked beautiful, virginal, demure, but also wanting and gorgeously slutty and like sex on legs. Harry swept his gaze over the other man, his impossibly long, lanky legs, his lean arm muscles, the thin, delicate fingers. Lust-blown eyes, parted, rosy lips, cheeks bright red from exertion, it all painted a picture that was almost too pretty to bear. And Severus's _cock_. Impressive, yes, but more than anything it seemed almost elegant, straining up between pale thighs. Last, but never least, he feasted on the sight of that pink, puffy arsehole, and thought he'd never be sated with the vision this man presented, stretched out against his sheets.

"God, Severus, look at yourself right now. You look so fucking perfect spread out for me here. You have no idea — _no idea_ what you do to me."

Severus shivered, blushing as scarlet as the bedsheets, still a bit disbelieving, and said, "Show me, then."

Harry lifted Severus's hips up easily — god, he was so slender, so fuckable — and slid a pillow under his arse.

"Won't the pillow get dirty?" Severus asked.

"It'll feel better this way," Harry said. Severus might know how to write a dirty sex scene, but Harry knew how to treat him tenderly, lovingly. He stroked Severus's pointy hipbone with one hand as he poured a generous amount of lube onto his cock.

"Push back, okay?" Harry asked, and slipped the head of his cock in, past his impossibly tight sphincter. It was almost _too_ tight. It was so good, and Harry felt like he might come just like that, buried only an inch in. But when he saw the small wince marring Severus's features and how his cock had wilted slightly, he instantly came back to himself. 

"Relax, love, just breathe. Push back. Breathe deep, and tell me when you're ready for more, okay?" Severus nodded, and Harry felt him loosen slightly. "Just like that, you're doing so good, so perfect," he said, and massaged Severus's bollocks in his palm, watching his cock thicken back up. "More," Severus rasped.

Harry pushed in a bit further, slowly, prepared to stop, but Severus moaned a little and bore down on his cock. His expression looked far from pained, so Harry kept on going until he was fully sheathed. He sighed and bent down to give Severus a kiss — sweet, simple, no tongue, no teeth, just warm affection and soft lips. "You feel amazing, love," he said softly.

"More," Severus whispered, then added, "love," so quietly, as though he were afraid that saying it might break a spell. Harry kissed him, then pulled his hips back and rolled them in, torturously slowly, trying to get Severus used to the feel of him. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"Good, good — come on, move. Or do I have to do all the work myself?" Severus gasped, then clenched hard around Harry's dick.

"Fuck, Severus," he panted, then settled himself back on his heels, sitting upright, trying to get a position which would hit Severus's prostate well. He began fucking him slowly, trying to find the right angle, and when Severus let out a broken moan and tossed his head back, he knew he had struck it. Grinding into Severus and trying to keep his depth constant, he grabbed onto Severus's waist where it was arched off the bed. Harry tried to hit his prostate with every stroke, and although he probably didn't have complete accuracy, Severus was moaning and writhing underneath him, tilting his hips up with every thrust.

"Fuck me, Harry," he said. "Fuck me hard." Harry groaned.

"I'll fuck you hard, sweetheart, but I'm going to fuck you slowly," Harry said, and lifted Severus's hips completely off the bed. "Wrap your legs around my waist."

From this angle, driving upwards into Severus's lifted hips, Harry could hit his prostate harder, more accurately, and he battered it slowly, digging bruises into Severus's arse where he held it. God, it was so different than anything he had dreamed of before, so different from his fantasies with Matthew Birnbaum and specter-Severus, and _so much better_. His heart felt full, bursting, and he couldn't believe he had this gorgeous creature under him, around him. He wanted to stay connected like this forever, didn't want it to ever end, so he fucked him slowly, deeply, until they were both panting, both at a knife's edge. Harry slid his right arm out from under Severus's waist and held him up with the left, supported his entire bony lower half on just one forearm, and began to stroke Severus with his right hand, still fucking him. He looked into those deep, dark brown eyes and couldn't believe the way that Severus looked, innocent yet utterly debauched, nose large yet face delicate, knobby and lanky yet sexy. He was trembling, gasping, and Harry twisted his wrist, knowing he was close.

"Come for me, baby," he said, nearly begging Severus. He stroked faster and pulled him down onto his cock, and then Severus froze, every muscle in his body tense as he orgasmed, and Harry couldn't stop looking at his face, watching how it stretched in ecstasy. Severus's brows pulled together, mouth forming a perfect 'o' as he wailed in pleasure, the skin on his face and chest blotchy and mottled red. Harry emptied himself fully into Severus's clenching heat, eyes slitted open so he could keep watching Severus's face.

He pulled out slowly when they had both caught their breath again, and Severus made a face at the odd feeling of Harry's spent cock slipping out. Harry set Severus's hips down gently and collapsed next to him, laying his arm over Severus's chest. They looked at each other, and Severus smiled softly, eyes crimping at the corners, and Harry placed a soft, chaste kiss to his lips.

"What now?" Severus asked.

"We could have a nap, or take a shower, or go try to reclaim our picnic blanket," Harry suggested, tracing an abstract pattern over the other man's chest.

"And after that?" He asked, his eyes betraying a hint of nervousness. "What do you want?"

"Hmm…" Harry said, "I want to make you dinner, then maybe take you back to bed. Then I want to whisper sweet nothings to you until you fall asleep in my arms. Then tomorrow, I want to wake up early, and kiss you on the cheek as I get out of bed to cook you pancakes, and bring them to you in bed, and wipe the syrup off your chin, and kiss it off of your lips. Then I want to make love to you again in the morning, and then again at night. And perhaps in the middle of the day, if you want me to. And then I want to repeat that every day, until we're so old and gray that you have to brew us special potions to get us hard."

Severus _beamed_ , his smile perfectly imperfect, and Harry loved him so much.

"How does that sound, sweetheart?" Harry asked.

"Perfect," Severus responded, and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment here or at [LiveJournal](https://snape-potter.livejournal.com/3907946.html), [Insanejournal](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/1834591.html), or [Dreamwidth](https://snape-potter.dreamwidth.org/1166098.html).


End file.
